


For Rogue Eyes Only: A 007 Story

by Canker_Blossom



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Bada Badah BA dada, Denial, F/M, Gen, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, well bond setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canker_Blossom/pseuds/Canker_Blossom
Summary: Agent 007 Cassian Andor works alone in the field, no matter how many partners his superiors try to force on him and no matter how many times Q agent Kay insists that they are compatible with field work. But with a new weapon and a terrorist threat on the horizon he must work with ex-mercenary member and current criminal Jyn Erso to stop the bomb from ever being made. But even as they move towards their target, the plans are already underway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Look this was an excuse to have slow dancing and sarcastic K-2 over the coms but then it grew, like a Hydra sprouting heads. Probs going to follow the movie kinda closely so sorry about that.

The Erso case was beginning to become stale when they found the bodies, charred and blackened on the side of the road, where their car had slipped on a particularly wide patch of black ice and rolled, the crushed metal trapping both Lyra and Galen Erso, unconscious or otherwise, inside as the engine ignited on snowy dark evening. A neighbor had seen the fire, but by the time the wreckage had been discovered, the blaze had grown out of control and horrified onlookers could only watch as it devoured everything flammable in the car until the fire department managed the winding, treacherous roads up the mountain. The inquest had named it death by misadventure, though there were a few paltry suggestions by the more fictional tabloids that the crash was suicide, murder or a combination of the two.  
However, the real mystery that the press had seized upon now that the disappearance of noted scientists had apparently been solved was that of the missing child. While the bodies of both Galen Erso and his wife had been identified by the pair’s long time friend, Orson Krennic, the daughter, Jyn, Jean or Jeanne depending on which tabloid the story had been printed in, had not been found. The search parties found nothing as they threaded though the woods, clambering through snowdrifts and across the sparse landscape beyond. Come spring and the snow’s melting, the police tried to rally the search again, and once again they had found nothing. The tabloids devoured the story, grainy photographs of the family splashed across the front page, and later when the news day was slow and no animal was found in a delightful hat, would throw out numerous, increasingly dramatised theories on what had happened to the final Erso. The Daily Messenger said the girl had been killed when the Ersos had first vanished from their apartment, Splash! argued that an underground crime ring had taken her as part of a failed hostage situation, something that was considered moot when no ransom was demanded and there was no reply to Orson Krennic’s offer of a substantial reward for any information on the missing girl. In time, however, with no new information and the increasing discredit of whatever blurry images of unidentifiable figures that were each argued to be an Erso, the interest in the family waned, and the name Erso drifted into the grey purgatory of public consciousness.

* * *

Fifteen years later and snow once again fell thick and fast, cold white against a black world. Inside the penthouse room was warm, clean chrome and pale silver shining slightly in the light. The men and women, all famous in their own ways, gave each other the tired, way looks of uneasy compromise that suited no one. Across the street a man in dark grey level a rifle at the window, cursing the snow under his breath. C.E Taylor noted mercenary, considered raising his fee. In the penthouse, one of the men excused himself, ducking across the hall and into a room with no windows facing Taylor. The phone buzzed in his jacket pocket not a second later. 

“You shouldn’t call during the fact,” Taylor muttered, peering steadily through the scope. He was most certainly not getting paid enough for this. 

“The deal goes through at midnight, I need this done now,” Taylor’s nameless client fretted in a hissed whisper as Taylor rolled his eyes. “I demand that I get my money’s worth, or I shall revoke my funds.” The client continued to bluster over the line. 

“Soon as you come out of the loo, I’ll light it up,” said Taylor meditatively. He was aware of the snow crunching under his feet as he shifted, bracing the rifle but against his shoulder. The client didn’t bother to say goodbye, not that Taylor cared as long as he was paid on time, to the last cent. A moment or two passed and out came the final man from the meeting, smoothing back his greying hair, before strolling back into the conference room and taking his seat back at the chrome table. Taylor raised the rifle slightly and shot the dangling light above the table. The room fell into darkness, screams of shock mingling with the smash of glass. Another bullet embedded itself in the far wall before any of the targets thought to head for the safety of the fire escape. Sure enough they crowded around the door to the hall, spilling into the lit space in stumbling, terrified ones and twos. 

It was at this moment, when Taylor had a young man with a shock of red hair in his sight, that he realized that there was no way he for have crunched the snow under his feet; he had been there before the snow had started to fall. He turned, swinging the rifle around with him as another man in a dark coat moved up behind him, silenced pistol in hand. The man dived under the rifle, crashing into Taylor, sending both rifle and pistol spinning out of their owners grasp. The two men rolled, grabbling as they traded blows. Taylor broke free first with a heavy hit to the chest, only to have the air forced out of him as the man drove his first into his stomach. Taylor reigned down blows, cracking his elbow across the man’s face until the man’s face would be thick with bruises. The man tried to swing at him, with little skill and no power, and Taylor seized his arm, relishing the snap of bone as he broke it between his hands. The man slumped and Taylor pushed himself to his feet, stumbling after his rifle. 

The bullet caught him in the side of the head as he turned, and Taylor fell soundlessly against the snow. The man in the dark coat got to his feet, wincing slightly and looked, a half-guilty expression crossing his face, towards the stairwell as he was joined by another man. The new comer was in dark blue, taller that the other, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to carry a permanently shadowed expression. The first wilted slightly, glancing at the silenced handgun in the man in blue’s hand as he crossed the roof. “007,” the man in the coat muttered, sullen at the necessary rescue. 

"009,” 007 said cooly, handing over his silenced pistol and scooping up the ex-mercenary’s rifle. 009 watched as 007 set it back into place then tilted it sharply downwards, watching steadily down the scope before his hand squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times. In the glass and chrome lobby, a man with snow-white hair, a dark haired woman and a man in a grey suit fell to the sound to glass shattering. “Engaging is a mistake most first timers make,” 007 said, dropping the rifle next to the mercenary’s body. 009 scowled. 

Had there been a third party on the rooftop they might have wondered at the fact that 009, who had cut a reasonably adult figure next to Taylor, if not a powerful or intimidating one, had something of a sullen child with the appearance of a grown man. The manner in which the newest 00 agent trooped towards the dingy stairwell on 007 dismissal, kicking up clumps of snow and muttering indistinctly under his breath, would only have strengthened the idea. 007 knelt once 009 was out of sight, running a hand over his mouth, considering the situation. The mission had been to bring Taylor in alive; tonight would have been the fourth assassination in two months, and now the only lead on the contractor was lying dead in the snow. 007 closed his eyes at the images flashing through his mind, the reminder that Taylor was not the only one lying dead. The three had were known members of an underground crime ring with some terrorist connections; the chaos those deaths would cause, D had reasoned and M had concurred with, would give the RA enough time to infiltrate the organisation. That plan was still underway, but it had not been the focus. And now, there was no chance to use (a living) Taylor’s disappearance to try and smoke out his employer. 

007 sighed and pocketing the dead man’s wallet and phone; it was unlikely that Taylor had been unseen by his employer, but it was better than nothing. 007 paused a moment as he got to his feet, looking down at the to the mercenary and swallowed against the old grey tide of realisation that yes you did that, you killed that person. A part of him wondered, as he always did, if there was a person waiting for him, someone who would miss whoever the mercenary had been, someone somewhere who would mourn the missing figure, even on the edges of their lives. Then he shut that part down, because it was the job, even if he hated it, hated each squeeze of the trigger, hated when he looked at people and saw buttons to push or openings to strike at, for all he knew it was necessary. 007 turned and followed 009 footprints to the stairwell. The snow would hide Taylor’s body, and without any ID, it would be weeks, months for a named to be placed to the dead man, if they were ever able to. 

Bellow, the police had cornered off the street, red and blue lights flashing in a thousand reflections along the glass windows. There was the low hum of people talking in wide eyes terrified clusters along the bright yellow police tape. 007 took the lead, 009 trailing behind him as they moved through the edges of the crowd, sliding surreptitiously out of the police officers’ lines of sight. The boy was obviously not ready for a 00 position, 007 thought. 009 was indecisive, reckless; he had almost gotten the wrong people killed (a mocking echo of the wrong people sounded in his mind repeating over and over in a bitter round). And because of 009’s actions, they were no longer able to bring Taylor in for questioning; the person who had hired him to assassinate someone at the meeting would no doubt be willing to strike again, and the Agency was blind without Taylor’s information. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he flicked it open as he stepped around a pair of women clinging tightly to each other and the baby that lay in one’s arms. 

“007,” Kay’s voice crackled over the line. “Mission status report?” 

“Completed,” 007 said, glancing back at 009 who had gotten slightly caught in a large group and was excusing him hurriedly. He sighed to himself, waited a moment and set off again, not bothering to slow his pace. 

“You’re a statistical anomaly,” Kay opinioned to the clack of a keyboard. “I am also required to inform you that you’re due for a holiday.” 

“Again?” 

“These things happen more than once,” Kay said in their usual mild, blunt manner and 007 sighed again, opening the dark, unexceptional car and sliding in behind the driver’s seat. “Is the brat average?” 

“Any commentary will be in the report Kay.”  
“ _I_ could do it better, Cassian.” 

“You _know_ you’re not cleared for field word Kay,” Cassian said, weariness settling deeper into his bones as 009 threw open the door to the driver’s seat and started to find someone else there. “Signing off Agent K-2,” 007 said with a pointed look at the younger agent as he moved around the car, something of a juvenile sulk to the slump of his shoulders.

Back at the Agency headquarters, Kay muttered something under their breath and flicked the phone off, setting to work shredding the more recent order for Cassian to use his leave. 

* * *

Later, deep within the tall, unobtrusive building, light bled under a closed door. In her office, M read the file; her face impassive as she laid out the photos, statements, cut off phone calls and decoded texts. D, who was nominally in charge of the double 0 program, was waiting, standing to stiff attention in front of the white desk. It was not night, for even if it was the Agency would still be cluttered with desk agents and commanders, orders and information whirling through the air; the brief hours before dawn, however, were only manned by a small, almost skeleton staff. There was no chance of being over heard. 

D shifted his weight carefully, trying to be as silent as possible. Not silent enough; though M did not look at him she murmured, “Is something wrong D?” 

The man before her straightened, the touch of the military he had never been able to shake clear in the line of his shoulders and the slight correction of his feet. “No ma’am.” 

She set the file down, folding her hands calmly in front of her. “Are you certain of this?” she asked, her voice deceptively level. 

D gave a short nod, before remembering that even if he had known Mon Mothma before the founding of the Agency’s current form, she now deserved a more differential expression of respect. “Indeed I am, ma’am,” he said after a moment’s pause, and a tired smile momentarily appeared on his superior’s face. They had risen through the ranks together, and M had, if not come to rely on D, come to trust in his unchanging nature. 

She flipped through the file again, skimming over the information. “So Galen Erso is still alive. Do we have any other leads beyond 007’s?” 

“Nothing concrete ma’am, though we believed that we might have found his daughter.” M held up the grainy photo from the arrest, frowning at the young face, emotionless until you saw the anger behind the eyes. “The arrest was for a Lianna Hallik, but photo scans and DNA match her to Jyn Erso. “Multiple accounts of forgery, breaking and entering, burglary, attempted burglary, assault, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, unlawful possession of a weapon, resisting arrest, carjacking, unlawful conduct with undesirables, creating a public nuisance, and disorderly conduct.” M looked up, eyebrows raised behind her has moon glasses. "I kept an eye on Erso case back in the day D. Do we know where the girl has been all this time?"

"We believe she was taken in by Saw Gerrera when she went missing, though they have since parted ways.”

M didn't let her surprise show. Saw Gerrera was a rarity, a mercenary with morals, though as time went on he had appeared to drop some standards. Even so she couldn't imagine any child raised by him, estranged or otherwise, being as  _petty_  a criminal as Jyn Erso seemed to be. “That doesn't bode well for finding him. Could 007's contact provide more information?”

“A dead end, ma’am. Necessarily so.” A faint look of displeasure creased M brow, before it was gone. Deaths, however unpleasant, happened in this business, and she had every faith the 007 killed only at the bequest of order or necessity.

“Very well. Send a team to bring the girl in.” 

D face tightened. Ever the military man, he disliked the idea of working with such a criminally volatile individual, but he still knew the best cores of action. “I have one waiting; we should have her in time for 007 debriefing.”

“007?” M said, unsurprised. 007 was the best, and with such an uncertain case, the best was needed. “I thought I required him to take a holiday.”

“He claims he missed the memo ma’am,” D replied carefully.

“Just like the last two,” M noted. “How strange.” She held the silence for a moment, and then took pity on the internal debate warring within D. “Fetch Erso. And assign 007 the case at nine hundred hours.”

D bowed. “As you say, M.” She called after him as he left the office. “Yes ma’am?” he said snapping to attention. 

M gave him an upraising look over another file, identical to the others piled neatly on her desk in every way. “I stress that Agent Andor receive it at nine hundred hours.”

“O’nine hundred,” D agreed. Silence hung in the air. 007 would no doubt find it mysteriously at oh seven hundred hours, when Agent K-2 would arrive. 

“Good,” M said, her eyes flicking back to the file. “Do add the three hours to his overtime.” She added, almost to herself as the door closed to the tap of D's military boots, “He shall have to be forced from the office at this rate.”

* * *

True to form, Cassian Andor, Agent 007, arrived three hours early. As always he was carrying cat and as always he made his way alone to the shooting range. It was there Agent Kay-2 of the Q branch found him, neatly unloading clip after clip into the targets. Clusters of holes had almost shredded the black silhouette at head, chest and stomach. 007 was the best marksman out of all the double O agents, something he liked to attribute to his vey early morning sessions when others asked him about it. Cassian Andor would also silently added the fact he could only sleep four straight hours on a good night, and needed something else to do until the agency let him work after this.  
Agent Kay, one of the many desk analysts that buzzed in the ears of field agents, dropped the file onto the table by Cassian’s side. Kay had been with the agency ever since Cassian had brought them back on one of his very first missions, one that had led the young agent to investigate a seemingly benign religious group for cult or criminal activity. Whatever had occurred behind the closed doors of the compound ensured that the pair was nigh on inseparable, more like siblings than fellow agents. And so Cassian asked with the slight concern of an older brother, “Where have you been?” as he packed up the rifle in quick well-practiced motions. 

“I was assigned to 008’s mission last night,” Kay said in their usual blunt, calm manner. “I was required to stay in the van, to hack the security cameras, but I also had to swing a door into someone’s face.” This was delivered with some satisfaction. 

“Why?” Cassian said slowly, picking up the file and flicking through.

“008 is terrible at his job. 009 is worse. I read your report.”

“Kay,” Cassian said. “You know you’re not cleared for field.” There had been an incident two years ago that had permanently sentenced Kay to desk duty for the foreseeable future. It had also crashed the Internet of numerous cities and drastically affected a satellite. Kay had been lucky that the higher ups had come for the old 009, rather than them.

“The subject was resisting our rescue. As I had calculated at an 85 per cent chance of occurring. 008 is a _very_ stupid man sometimes.”

“ _Kay_ ,” Cassian hissed as the pair stepped into the elevator. Kay shrugged their shoulders, plainly not caring that anyone could hear them roundly insulting a high profile agent.

“You have not slept well again? they announced when the shining chrome doors closed.

The name came as a sigh, protesting what Cassian saw as unnecessary interest. “Kay-.” 

“Do you know how many hours a fully functioning adult requires?” Kay asked. Cassian was silent. “Do you know how many you average?” The soft bing of the elevator reaching the right floor was the only sound in answer.

* * *

Jyn Erso drummed her fingers against the table. She was not hand cuffed to the chair, which was both a good and bad sign. Good: it meant she was useful to them, which made her necessary. Bad: it meant she was useful to them, which would mean that she would, once again, be stuck as someone’s pet. The fan circled noisily overhead, deliberately so. They were keeping her waiting, trying to soften her so she would unconsciously act with gratitude when an interrogator would arrive.

Or they were punishing her for her attempted escape.

Jyn yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth with her hand, and glared pointedly into the mirror that she knew full well would be only glass on the other side. It hadn’t been that much of an escape attempt; she had only gotten a street away, her breath steaming in the night air, before a van had slammed its door into her and a slightly bored sounding individual in black had warned her against resisting as the stumbling and bruised agents had finally caught her. She remembered breaking one of the agent’s nose with something close to satisfaction until she thought how that was Saw Gerrera’s satisfaction. Jyn could still remember the feeling of weightlessness when she finally realized that he wasn’t coming, like so many others before him. He’d been the last, if only because Jyn had never allowed anyone else close enough that leaving would hurt.

She retraced the floor plan of the building she’d been escorted into in her mind, if only to distract her from the memory of the box and the silence; there had been a fire escape that would serve as an escape, if only she could reach it. She had noticed it when the man with the broken nose had dragged her to the interrogation room, leaving his battered colleagues behind to nurse their bruises, recently acquired and the courtesy of Jyn’s elbows and feet. A part of her considered slipping loose and bolting, maybe snagging one of the guns in the easy to reach holsters but it had been a fool’s idea, the idea of a life left behind. Lianna Halik, Kestrel whichever alias she was using, was a criminal, not a soldier. And criminals did not enact daring escape plans in the middle of a government agency, unless they wanted to get shot by the fifteen other guns she’d caught sight of, maybe more. It was only to be expected. 

When Jyn’s interrogators finally arrived they were not exactly what she expected. However they soon became so, the stately woman in white playing a calm and level good cop though there was a slight edge of steel to her tone that ruined the image slightly, and a man who had carried a military stiffness to a ridiculously extreme level playing bad cop. Jyn let them speak, noting how the man never tried to perfect his act by speaking over the good cop.

“Let me be blunt,” the bad cop said, after spending five minutes summarizing out Jyn’s rap sheet and history. “You’ll help us, or we’ll put you back in that cell and let them ship you off to high security.”

“Jyn,” said the woman in white, her calm soft voice coming slightly too soon behind bad cop for it to be unplanned. “We need your help in finding your father.”

“My father’s dead. It was in the papers.” She bit out the answer, her eyes snapping up to the woman as her hands clenched against the memory of the box and her mother falling, and in doing so she almost missed the man entering the room. Had she seen him before her father was mentioned, somewhere other than a small interrogation room that was growing increasingly small as she fought her own memories, Jyn would have thought he was handsome. As it were, the instincts Saw Gerrera had drilled into her and she had developed over almost ten years of being alone only reported that he was clearly important to whatever these people wanted, otherwise he wouldn’t have been there.

Cassian felt a brief moment of surprise that the prisoner who had patterned the field agents sent to retrieve her with bruises was even younger than he was, and then suppressed it, doing his best to blend into the background. Even so, he was aware each time Jyn Erso’s eyes flicked to him for half seconds, suspicious and questioning as M spoke, laying the evidence in front of the young woman in front of her. The coroner’s report that had been buried under piles of paperwork in a small town station, the hospital files relating to a deceased man of about Galen Erso’s height, body weight and age, the Agency’s own DNA test against that road accident victim and the body that lay in the grave marked with Galen Erso.

“The man who the police mistakenly identified as your father was previously deceased for several hours,” M said, her voice gentle but controlled, passing the last piece of evidence that Jyn Erso was to see, the black and white snapshot of her father taken from an airport security camera, across the table. There was no reaction on Jyn Erso’s face as she looked down at the photo, but Cassian saw her hands, already balled into fists, tighten until the knuckles were bone white. “We believe that your father is being used to create a new kind of bomb,” M said. "One that reacts without combustion."

There was a faint pause before Jyn answered, only a moment but she cursed at herself for the giveaway. “My father was a scientist who investigated renewable energy, not a terrorist. But it might be him.” Her words were clipped, an almost neutral scowl that just veered into anger at the corners of her eyes and the curl of her mouth masked her face, but Cassian still saw the faint flicker or hope in Jyn Erso’s eyes at the possibility that she wasn’t letting herself fully believe.

“When was the last time you were in contact, exactly?” he asked, keeping his voice light, almost casual. D’s authoritarian push hadn’t worked in the slightest, a part from almost making Erso refuse to work with them out of spite alone. A part of Cassian would prefer that, but Jyn Erso, petty criminal, was still their only chance.

“Fifteen years ago,” Jyn said, noting difference in tone and the fact that he seemed just as informed as his superiors, turning to look the quiet, shadowed man in the face. It was the first time that she had looked at him for longer than a second since he’d arrived, and at first all Cassian could see was suspicion. But behind that he saw that there was something of a fire to her eyes and decided that it was dangerous, but possibly useful.

“And when were you last in contact with Saw Gerrera?” he pushed, testing the waters. Jyn felt her shoulders tighten at the name, remembering a warm summer’s night, the cold lonely morning and the grey days that stretched into weeks, months, years. The room seemed even smaller than it had before.

“Why?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest, raising her chin in defiance. “I haven’t seen Saw in years,” she continued, then in case she had given too much away added, “Why don't you ask your boss?”

“Saw did work with us, but he broke contact, several years ago,” said M, drawing Jyn Erso’s eyes away from Cassian’s. To Jyn’s surprise there was a slight smile on her face, though when she blinked it was gone. “We believe that he may be in contact with your father or that he may information regarding his disappearance.”

Jyn swallowed as she fought down the dull stab at the idea that Saw had lied to her. He had done worse than that hadn’t he? And she wasn’t a child anymore. She clung to that idea, it and the spite was the only thing keeping her alight in the dark. What gets you up in the morning? Caf and spite, she thought numbly, remembering her mother laughing about it in happier times.

“Agent Andor has leads which should guide you to him,” the woman in white continued, gesturing to the quiet handsome man with the shuttered eyes and the faintly irritated expression Jyn had managed to coax out.

“Your task would be making sure Saw doesn’t _murder_ anyone before talking to us,” the bad cop said, his voice sharp as he cut his way into the conversation. Jyn Erso didn’t flinch at the accusation, but the look in her eyes said plain as day that she didn’t need or care for moral lectures from hypocrites. Cassian fixed his eyes on a point a foot or so above Jyn Erso’s head, listening as M took over from D unintentional blunder, framing the mission as a rescue, to bring Galen Erso to somewhere that wouldn’t separate him from his daughter. She didn’t say as much, but the implication was there, hiding under her words. It seemed to have an affect; though Cassian wasn’t sure that Jyn Erso wasn’t being manipulated and instead had just accepted that going along was the best path to take at the moment.

“I help you, I go free?” Jyn took care to watch each face as she pretended to think about the terms; the woman in white was calm, though there was worry there as well, Bad cop looked simply angry, and there was a wariness to Agent Andor's features. She’d already decided to agree. It wasn’t as if she had a choice; the moment she wasn’t of use she would be back in prison. It was written across ‘bad cop’s face. She could work with someone like that; he was an ass, patronizing to be sure, but not a man who was a wealth of surprises. A grinder, as Saw would say. Agent Andor though, he would be harder, particularly when they would be expecting her to try and escape. That was fair. If she was in the mood to be honest with herself, Jyn might have been a touch insulted if they hadn’t, even if it made things more difficult. It wouldn’t matter in the end; Jyn had a lot of practise at escaping. She’d had a lot of practice at escaping, it was one of the things she never failed to do. She’d even escaped Jyn Erso for a time too, once Saw had left, Jyn Erso and the box. A stab of pain pierced her mind and Jyn realized that she was still clenching her hands. She relaxed and saw that her fingernails had cut small red crescents into her palm. Jyn ignored it, throwing a nod across the table to the woman in white as she hurried her hands in her pockets.

She’d lead them to Saw and then she'd leave them. Jyn was sure she could do it; leaving things behind, escaping, was one of the things she never failed to do.  She could escape whatever Agent Andor could throw at her.


End file.
